To wander alone when the moon faintly beaming
With glimmering lustre darts through the dark shade,
Where owls seek for covert, and nightbirds complaining,
Adds sound to the horror that darkens the glade.
Tis not for the happy; come, daughter of sorrow,
Tis here thy sad thoughts are embalm'd in thy tears,
Where, lost in the past, disregarding tomorrow;
There's nothing for hopes and nothing for fears.